


I Know You By Heart

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [41]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Drunk Sex, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Pining, Schmoop, Truth or Dare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 17:19:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14835897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: The first time they kiss, it’s on a dare.





	I Know You By Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Fine. But I’m doing it because I want to, not because you told me to. Prompt from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).
> 
> I know the rule is I write these for only 25 minutes but today, the muse, she kept talking so I had to keep writing. But as usual there's been zero editing and minimal spellchecking, so. Forgive me.

The first time they kiss, it’s on a dare.

They’re at Nat's house at some dumb party; party in name only, as far as Steve’s concerned. There’s loud music and too many people and he’d much, much rather be at home with his Jim Butcher novels or watching bad TV with Buck. But Bucky’s the whole reason he’s there, of course, the only reason he hasn’t turned tail and ran: Bucky wants him to Make an Effort and Get to Know People and fuck, yes, objectively, he can see his best friend’s point. He should socialize more than he does, should talk to more than a handful of people each day. That’s the whole point of college, Buck tells him, to spread his wings or whatever, to become somebody different than he was in high school, if that’s his thing.

It is his thing. Or he wants it to be.

Nobody at Robert Morris Community College has any idea what he was like three years ago. They don’t remember the awkward, skinny kid he was then, ears too big for his head and body more like a whippet than a real, human boy. They don’t know that kids called him Pinocchio from first grade straight through to his freshman year of high school and that they only stopped because they didn’t recognize him when he came back sophomore year six inches taller and just about that much broader. Hell of a growth spurt, hell of a change, courtesy of genetics and a long summer spent on his aunts’ farm upstate. He had muscles and freckles, the fading vestiges of a tan, and suddenly everybody wanted to be Steve Rogers’ friend--no, Bucky had assured him, eyes lit up with amusement: everybody wanted to fuck him. Not quite the same thing.

Only Buck hadn’t treated him any different, even if he had to look up now to give Steve shit. He still called Steve “little punk” and punched him on the shoulder when he made a joke he thought Steve should laugh at and came over after school to listen to music and pointedly not do his homework and stretch out on the living room floor with Howie, Steve’s very dumb, very sweet husky. Sometimes, he still stayed until Steve’s mom got home from second shift, the two of them riffing on some terrible sitcom or playing cards or talking about the latest bullshit at school. Bucky never said he was keeping Steve company, or that he didn’t really want to go home himself, but they both knew these things were true. They’d known each other long enough that there wasn’t any need to say a lot of things out loud. They were just understood.

Like Steve being desperately in love with Bucky: head over heels, completely, you are sweeter than the sun and the moon. They both knew that. They’d never discussed it; god knew Steve had never said anything about it to anyone, ever. But he didn’t have to. Buck had always been able to read him like a book, one he knew by heart, and maybe it was better that way, not having to say it because that meant Bucky never had to say  _ no _ . 

That was understood, too.

Because Bucky was into girls, lots of them. Redheads and brunettes and blondes--he had a thing for blondes; drama nerds and band geeks, cheerleaders and the president of the student council, girls who did Quiz Bowl and girls who played hockey and girls who he met on the street. He fooled around a lot, always had a good time, never said he was looking for a long-term girlfriend, always was upfront about that. He didn’t talk shit about his dates or say anything about them, really, to Steve or anybody else. Not that Steve would ever ask. It was bad enough that he’d see the debris of one date or another on Bucky’s neck, or catch sight of Buck in some back hallway with his arms around a girl, hers wound around his neck, the two of them pressed close, grinning against each other’s mouths. He didn’t need anymore detail than that.

There were times when they’d be alone, in Steve’s kitchen or on a walk with Howie or in Bucky’s car and Steve have to clench his hands into fists, bite his lip, look away, anything not to lean over and take Bucky’s mouth; scratch at his neck and pet his hair and kiss him until Buck moaned and clutched at Steve’s shoulders and kissed him back. Sometimes, the desire, his daydreams, were so vivid that he lost track of what Bucky was actually saying or where they were going and he wondered why the hell he was torturing himself this way, spending all his time with a guy who adored him as a friend but would never, ever want him back.

So of course they end up in college together. Of course they do.

It’s not a sure thing until the last minute, both of them going to Robert Morris, because Bucky seriously flirts with joining the Navy. Steve hates it and he quietly freaks out for the two weeks it seems like a real possibility but he doesn’t tell Buck not to do it. It wouldn’t have done any good, anyway. Once Bucky gets an idea in his head, he’s like a bull in a house made of crystal: he’ll break whatever he has to in order to hang on to it, no matter how illogical or wrongheaded it seems. He’s just wired that way, had been since they were little kids, and Steve knows enough the first time Buck brings it up to keep his mouth shut and just listen while Buck talks it out, all the great stuff the Navy life would do for him, how good it would be to get the hell out of Monroeville, how much better his future would be.

But the idea burns itself out, a birthday candle left lit too long, and so Bucky settles for getting his own place, a dollhouse one bedroom with loud pipes and banged up furniture, but it’s all his. 

In July, they drive to campus together to sign up for classes. Two years, Bucky says philosophical on the way over. I can stick it out here for two more years. He turns to Steve, takes his eyes all the way off the road. With you around, that is, punk. Long as you’re here.

I’m not going anywhere, Steve says, furious at himself for blushing, furious at his heart for taking that the wrong way and beating harder, too fast.

Bucky smiles at him, a sunny slash below his sunglasses. ‘Course you’re not, he says. I’m your ride.

They sign up for a mix of pre recs and fun stuff: first-year writing, biology, some kind of horrible math, and then drawing and intro to drama for Steve, intro to business and world history for Buck.

World history is where he meets Nat. She’s gorgeous and funny in this dry as toast way and smarter than the two of them put together and she has zero interest in dating Buck. Steve likes her a lot.  She eats lunch with them on Mondays and Wednesdays, when their schedules overlap, and hounds Bucky about his homework, some paper he didn’t do, some lecture he should go to. She slips into Russian when she gets mad or when she’s super excited and invites them over to her place for dinner a few times, a house she shares with her girlfriend, Peggy, and a laconic guy named Clint. Peggy is firm and no nonsense with everybody else--a true middle-school teacher in the making--but she gets seriously giggly with Nat, especially when Nat whispers in her ear and kisses the side of her neck. Clint’s pretty quiet, keeps to himself, except for sometimes he’ll get a bug in his ear and talk Bucky’s off about it, corner him in the living room and go on and on about pull weights and deer blinds and Steve wants no part of any of that. But it’s nice, going over there, sitting around the card table in Nat’s kitchen and eating too much, having half a beer, listening to chatter. After a few months, it starts to feel almost easy.

And then Nat invites them to a party.

It’s Peggy’s 22nd birthday, ostensibly, but it’s also the end of October and the leaves are perfect and the night air is cool and it’s the perfect time to gather, before November kicks in the door dragging winter. Except there are way more people there than Steve expected--like 25? 30?--and he doesn’t know what to do with himself, especially when Bucky spots his latest crush on the other side of the living room. Her name’s Sharon and Steve only knows this because Bucky’s pointed her out on campus like 900 times and why Bucky’s being so squirrelly about talking to her, Steve has no idea.

Go on, he mouths over the music. I’ll be fine.

Bucky waggles his eyebrows and punches Steve in the arm and starts to glide over, weaving his way through the crowd. Steve looks away.

He spots Nat and Peggy near the speakers. They’re dancing with their arms around each other, smiling; Peggy’s wearing a big sparkly tiara and Nat’s wearing a really short skirt and they look beautiful together, stupid happy.

He can’t look at them, either.

He grabs a beer and then another and ends up outside somehow, sitting on a lawn chair beside a guy named Tony and his buddy, Bruce. They’re arguing about string theory and alternative dimensions and take Steve’s presence in stride, try to explain things to him, try to woo him to see their side. Steve’s blitzed enough that he actually listens, starts to form an opinion, asks what Tony assures him are very good questions. But then, Tony’s single handedly destroying a bottle of Southern Comfort, so maybe they’re not.

Are you a friend of the bride or the bride? Tony asks later, when the bottle is down to its last inch.

Of who and who? Steve says. All that Yuengling’s made it hard to think.

Of Nat and/or Peggy.

Bruce says: Are they getting married? How come nobody told me? Why didn’t you tell me, Tony? I would’ve brought a card. Now we look like assholes.

Tony flaps out a hand and smacks Bruce in the chest. I was speaking metaphorically, dear.

You were?

Oh, Steve says. I’m friends with Nat. Through Bucky. I mean, Bucky’s my friend and he introduced me to Nat and that’s how I met Peggy.

Tony’s eyes light up, glow brighter than his cig. You’re Bucky’s friend? 

Yeah.

Bruce leans over. Wait, you’re Steve?

There’s a prick of heat on his neck. Yes, I told you my name already.

You did, Tony says. But what I didn’t grok is that you’re  _ that _ Steve.

Steve’s head hurts. He needs another beer. What Steve?

Which Steve, Bruce says.

Yes, Tony says, exactly. He leans over and pats Steve’s knee, gives him a broad grin. You’re the only Steve that matters, Steve. Or so Nat tells me. At least to one Mr. Buck.

I have no idea what you’re saying, Steve says.

Bruce laughs and Tony does too, just a little. Of course you don’t, my friend, Tony says. That’s why you matter.

Which is how, somehow, Steve ends up sitting on Nat’s living room floor with Tony, Bruce, Bucky, and Clint playing Truth or Dare at two in the morning. Peggy’s tiara is perched on Clint’s head, crooked, and Bruce is wearing one of Nat’s bras. He looks pleased. Nat’s in the armchair, swigging peach vodka with Peggy in her lap, looking slap happy and very, very wasted. And Sharon’s there, too, sitting on the couch beside Bucky, shooting him little looks that Steve’s seen a thousand times before, knows by heart. He wonders vaguely why Bucky’s still there, why he hasn’t taken Sharon someplace to fuck, but that’s the beer talking, the six pack that is now his blood.

Truth, Tony says loudly, or dare? Barnes, what’ll it be?

Bucky laughs, the loose gravelly one he only breaks out when he’s drunk. Dare.

The room groans.

Bucky, you dumb shit, Nat says. Never take Stark up on a dare.

Clint tips his head back onto the couch, peers up at Bucky backwards. That was stupid, he says gravely. I hope you don’t have a record. ‘Cause you’re about to get one. 

Brave man, Tony says over the din. Brave or foolish. I like that.

Steve scrubs his eyes and resists the urge to stretch out on the carpet. It’s soft under his palms. It feels really nice.

I dare you, he hears Tony say, to kiss Blondie over here on the mouth.

Steve snorts. Sharon. He’s gonna have to kiss Sharon, the girl he’s been trying to get with. Yeah, boo hoo. Real fucking terrifying dare there, Stark.

Is that all, Bucky says. Well.

Steve feels the couch rattle, hears people shift, and before he can look away or leave, Bucky’s there, his hands on Steve’s face.

Is this ok? Bucky says.

Is what--?

I’ll make it good, Bucky says, and wow, he’s close. So close the words taste like whiskey and Coca-Cola. I promise.

And then the world falls apart because Bucky’s kissing him, has his mouth sunk warm and wet into Steve’s, and he’s humming, this soft, satisfied noise that goes straight to Steve’s cock, and lo and behold, Steve’s kissing him back.

Bucky’s kneeling next to him and Steve feels top heavy, smashed, so the angle’s off and nobody’s naked and it’s not the perfect first kiss, in Steve’s book, but it’s so, so very close.

Oh, and they’re in a room full of people. There’s that too.

Buck tips his head back, whispers, Stevie?

Yeah, Steve says, remembering how his hands work, remembering that he’s spent a lifetime dying to touch. Hey, Buck.

This time, he does fall back, goes flat on the carpet and Bucky comes with him, tumbles to his side without breaking the kiss and oh, saints in all the heavens, it’s glorious.

You two are disgusting, Tony says cheerfully, right in Steve’s ear. Good for you, kid. Have at it.

Steve can feel the floor shudder, hear the wood creak as the room empties, everybody razzing them as they go, and when they’re alone, he shoves his hand through Bucky’s hair like he’s always fucking wanted and Bucky makes the hottest noise and crawls over him, his body pinning Steve’s to the floor.

I want you, Bucky says, wrecked. I want you so bad, Steve. Jesus. But you’re drunk.

So are you.

Bucky laughs, buries the sound on the side of Steve’s throat. Yeah, but I’ve wanted you for years. He rucks his hips against Steve’s, drowns them both in the friction, the heat. This ain’t the booze talking, believe me.

Years? Steve shakes his head. No, you haven’t.

Yes, I have.

No you haven’t, Steve says. I wanted you and you didn’t want me. That was our thing.

Bucky sits up a little, something pained and lovely fluttering over his flushed face. What are you talking about? I never said--you never told me you--

Steve reaches up and pets Bucky’s mouth. I thought I didn’t have to. I thought we both understood.

Bucky closes his eyes, kisses the tips of Steve’s fingers. Oh baby, he says. No.

Steve opens his mouth to ask more, to say more, to finally at last speak, but Bucky leans down and licks over his tongue and talking seems a lot less imperative, right then.

They’re both exhausted and giddy and sloshed and neither of them lasts very long, once Bucky peels them open, catches both their cocks in his fist. 

I’m gonna come all over you, Bucky pants. You want that?

Please, Steve says, so loud that his ears ring. Fuck me, fuck, please.

Bucky kisses him quiet, singes him with a furious smile. Want to make you come first. Wanna see you lose it for me, baby, make a mess of your pretty cock, my fist. Can you do that for me? Huh? Show me how good I make you feel?

Steve claws at Bucky’s hips and grins and does just that with a groan, a low, satisfied sigh.

Oh shit, Bucky says, his hand moving frantic. Oh shit, Stevie, shit, that’s so--

He arches up, still holding their cocks, and spurts on Steve’s shirt, the bare skin of his groin, and the look on his face, the startled, fevered joy--he’s the most beautiful thing that Steve’s ever seen.

They kiss, after. Roll around in their own stickiness and make out until Steve is yawning, until sleep’s banging on the back of his eyes.

We should go home, he says. This carpet’s scratchy.

Bucky laughs. Sweetheart, I am in zero condition to drive.

‘S ok. I’ll drive.

You won’t. Bucky kisses his jaw. We’ll stay here and sleep it off until Nat kicks us out and then I’ll take you home and fuck you in an actual bed. Mine.

Steve turns his head, lays his lips over Bucky’s. We should talk about this, he murmurs. I guess. Should we?

He can feel the curve of Bucky’s smile, the heat of his hand over Steve’s heart. Nah, Bucky says. I think we both understand.


End file.
